


from dust to dust

by dirtybinary, sonatine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:27:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8017534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/pseuds/dirtybinary, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonatine/pseuds/sonatine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles about superheroes and their daemons. More to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dirtybinary, buckysam

Sam stumbles out of his room early one morning, yawning, Redwing making grumpy noises on his shoulder. Steve and Ariel are out running, but the kitchen already smells like coffee, and there’s a man-shaped shadow lurking at the counter. (It’s maybe a tiny bit creepy. His rational mind _knows_ Barnes is mostly harmless now—he’s a good guy, and he had all their backs during the whole shitshow with Stark––but his muscles and bones and nerves still remember being flung bodily off a helicarrier, and it’s going to take them a while to get with the program.) He grunts hello and Barnes grunts something back. There are two coffee mugs sitting on the counter in front of him, so Sam reaches automatically for the other one. And then—

And then he jerks his hand back, because it doesn’t have coffee in it. Instead, there is a small white rabbit about the size of his palm curled up in the bottom of the cup, looking balefully at him through bright beady eyes. It’s so tiny it doesn’t even look real. It’s never actually crossed Sam’s mind that the Winter Soldier would have a daemon, that he _could_ still have one after everything they did to him, and even if he did it would have to be something huge and monstrous like Ariel. Or at least a creepy-crawly like Natasha’s Kostya, who is always some kind of snake even if he can never make up his mind which one. Not… not this.

“What the fuck,” says Redwing, giving voice to Sam’s thoughts as she always does. She flaps a bit, hopping up and down on Sam’s shoulder in a most unnecessarily smug way, as if she hadn’t gone through a penguin phase herself for a few awkward months when Sam was in middle school. “You’re a bunny!”

Barnes’s eyes, as bright and watchful as his daemon’s, are on them both, but he says nothing. The rabbit twitches her ears reproachfully. “Well, hello to you too.”

Sam wonders whether Barnes would fight him if he spoke to his daemon, and decides to throw caution to the wind. Between him and Redwing, one of them has to be polite. “What’s your name?”

Another ear-twitch. “Marsh,” says the rabbit haughtily, insofar as one can be haughty when one’s natural speaking voice is a high-pitched squeak.

“What,” says Redwing. “Like the god of war?”

“ _Marsh_ , you birdbrain,” says the rabbit. “Not Mars.”

Redwing flutters and gives an indignant squawk, looking down her beak at the rabbit. Having managed to locate his own mug, Sam fills it with steaming black coffee and waves it in front of her placatingly. “Oh,” he says. “Is it, uh, short for anything?”

There is a protracted pause. He fancies he sees the edges of Barnes’s mouth rise. Finally, with a palpable air of reluctance, the rabbit sighs and says, “Marshmallow.”

Redwing nearly falls into the sink. Sam spits coffee halfway into next week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kostya has about 5 billion fake names like Nat, wait for it


	2. sonatine, stevebucky

The first time Steve jerry-rigs a biplane is in May. Ariel doesn't protest; she eggs him on.

The second time Steve commandeers a Nazi plane is in October, and he’s hell-bent.

“Steve,” Ariel protests.

“No choice,” Steve reminds her.

“Bucky would—” but it's too hard for both of them to hear his name.

+

The first time the asset hotwires a jeep is after his sale to the Soviets.

His hands know what to do automatically—not like with weapons, where the muscle memory feels steel-enforced and smooth—but with a burning-hot shiver of nostalgia and an ache behind his teeth.

“He taught us how,” a small piece of fluff whispers in his ear.

_Marshmallow,_ the asset knows, somehow, and although he doesn't have a name for the _he_ Marshmallow is referring to, the asset can picture a blurry slim blond image.

The jeep whirrs to life and the rabbit daemon curls under his amour by his shoulder. The asset feels.

+

The asset hotwires up a machine again; this time it is a helicopter and a tall blond man is running after him and grabbing onto the chopper’s rungs.

The man _holds the chopper back_ with the strength of his arms alone and the asset forgets to steer away.

“Fucking hell,” Marshmallow squeaks from his pocket.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, and gets a headache so intense that he—the asset—Bucky?—the Winter Soldier—loses consciousness for a moment.

He wakes up briefly when the helicopter is crashing into the helipad, and then again when he is submerged in water and the blond man—the target—Steve?—is hauling him to the surface.

The asset relaxes against the man. The man’s gecko daemon glares balefully at him, treading water beside them.

“Guess we’re even now,” she says.

“Yeah,” Bucky grunts, and feels a phantom ache of a dislocated shoulder.

+

“Steve,” Ariel says urgently.

“No choice,” Steve reminds her.

“But _Steve—_ ”

“Yeah, Steve,” Bucky says behind him. “What's going on here?”

“Uh,” Steve says, caught. He sticks his head out from under the car hood. “Okay, you know how I said last week I was taking the car in to get an oil change?”

“You didn't?” Bucky guesses dryly.

“No, I did, but I may have left the door… slightly open… later on…”

Bucky gives him an unimpressed look.

“Was it a fight or a cat stuck up a tree?” Marshmallow says.

“Neither,” Steve says. “There was a car crash down the street—”

“A fender bender,” Ariel whispers.

“Whose side are you on?”

“C’mere, punk,” Bucky says, sliding beside Steve. His fingers brush across his as they finish finagling together. “Think that'll make it to the auto shop?”

“Maybe,” Steve says. He sounds breathless.

Bucky takes in his increased breath rate; dilated pupils; wet lips. Bucky presses a quick kiss to them.

“Remembering something?”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, brushing a hand across Steve's wrist. Ariel coils around it with pleased keening. “Tell ya later.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for clarification: in this 'verse Steve's daemon Ariel is still somewhat changeable because of the serum; she is a lioness for purposes of propaganda and occasional mayhem and a gecko the rest of the time


	3. dirtybinary, samsteve

“I think,” says Ariel, giving the paint bucket a few contemplative stirs with her tail, “his eyes are a bit more amber than that.”

“Hazel,” says Steve absently. He’s more concerned with getting Sam’s smile right. Sam’s smile is a burst of sunflowers and bluebirds. Sam’s smile is, if not _the_  best thing about the twenty-first century, at least among the top ten. Sam’s smile is also, unfortunately, a miracle of geometry and contours and shading, and resists all attempts at being captured on canvas.

“No,” says Ariel. She slithers around Steve’s wrist for a closer look. “Hazel’s a bit more green, isn’t it? It’s definitely amber. And you haven’t shaded Redwing’s tail feathers right.”’

“You can’t possibly have been looking at Sam’s eyes,” says Steve. “We met him for _five minutes_  and you were mooning at Redwing the whole time.”

“Redwing,” repeats Ariel with a sigh. Steve hasn’t seen her so starry-eyed over any daemon since—well, since Peggy and Apollo. “She’s the best.”

+

“Hypothetically speaking,” says Ariel, “if we jumped out of a building, and I happened to slip out of your pocket—hypothetically, of course, not that I would ever be so careless—do you think Redwing would catch me?”

Steve puts the finishing touches on his ink sketch of chibi Sam in the air, holding up a building with one hand and a Captain Ameribear with the other. Above him, Redwing is sporting some very fashionable mini-goggles. “Hypothetically,” he says, “I think she’d probably figure you were doing it on purpose.”

+

“Okay,” says Ariel grudgingly, “she does look very dashing. You finally got her tail feathers right. And her talons. And her crest markings.”

“And Sam’s suit,” Steve reminds her. He’d spent five hours last night on the colours on Sam’s new Cap suit alone. “It’s very handsome. He’s very handsome. You think it would be too forward if I told him that?”

“I think,” a new voice pipes up, making them both jump, “he just looks like a very large cockerel, carrying a dinner plate and a smaller cockerel.”

Marshmallow’s ears poke out of the tissue box. Steve still hasn’t gotten used to her roaming at will around the house like a silent shadow, independent of Bucky. It’s unnatural. Given her penchant for burrowing into anything soft, it also makes reaching for a tissue, clearing out the laundry hamper, or making Bucky’s bed an adventure. He never knows when she’ll turn up, tittering reproachfully. “Oh, shut up,” says Ariel. “You’re just saying that because Bucky thinks so.”

“Bucky,” says Marshmallow loftily, “says Sam is the literal worst.”

“That’s Bucky’s idea of giving a compliment,” Steve points out.

In typical Barnesian fashion, Marshmallow ignores this. “I’m gonna tell him you think Sam’s handsome,” she says gleefully. “He’ll never let it go.”

“Oh, god,” says Steve. Ariel makes a swipe for Marshmallow, but she’s already bounding across the room on soundless rabbit feet, a pure white streak of fur. He looks down at his painting of Sam, the latest in a series of 147, and considers eating it. “Oh, _god_ , I shall cease to exist.”

Ariel makes a sad _glorp_  noise and submerges herself in the paint bucket.


	4. dirtybinary, stevebucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one where Marshmallow gets a backstory

For a brief period between Bucky’s third and fourth birthdays, Marshmallow tries being a gnat.

It’s entertaining for a while. No one is allowed to touch her but Bucky, so no one swats her away when she gets up close to peer in their faces. Faces are so interesting. But then she sees how Becky and _her_ daemon—currently a big chocolate lab with goofy ears—curl around each other on their cot at night, sleep-warm and blissful, and gets jealous, so she tries being a kitten next: a little white fluffball of a Persian longhair, round-faced and squash-nosed, gambolling around Bucky’s feet under the school desk while he learns his ABCs.

The claws are a definite plus.

She gets tired of that, too. Her Bucky, with his penchant for feeding most of the contents of his lunchbox to alley strays, is always surrounded by cats anyway. Marsh wants to be _special_. When Bucky reaches second grade she finds it useful to be intimidating—a big black grizzly bear—because some of the rougher kids on the block think Bucky’s soft, an easy target, what with him walking Becky to kindergarten every morning before school. They soon disabuse them of that notion.

But she doesn’t like being so big. She tries being a dormouse, so she can fold herself up small in Bucky’s shirt pocket, close to his heart. She likes that. It’s a convenient place from which to chirrup in his ear, keeping up a running commentary of the various quirks and peccadilloes of the people around them without necessarily being seen herself. But maybe not a dormouse? She’s a moth for a while, fluttering around the enticing orange glow of his nightlight; then a hummingbird, but three-dimensional navigation confuses her and results in embarrassing accidents; then a hamster and a chinchilla and a guinea pig.

She’s a little white rabbit the day the sixth-grade boys decide to corner Bucky just outside the schoolyard before the bell and demand his lunch money. “Look at that,” says one of them, “kid’s got a bunny daemon,” and the boys laugh, and she bristles and morphs into her grizzly bear form, casting her long shadow over her Bucky and his grazed knuckles.

“You know what,” says Bucky, rolling his eyes, “I would’ve just given you the damn money if you hadn’t insulted my daemon.”

He throws the first punch. Marsh swings into action beside him, roaring—maybe if she roars loud enough, a teacher will come, or one of Bucky’s many scrappy friends? But she doesn’t want that. She and Buck, they’ve got this. She’s up against a leopard and an eagle and a wolfhound and a goddamn boa constrictor, so to be honest, the odds aren’t great. But then there’s another roar from behind her, a different type of roar, and something huge and golden clears the schoolyard fence in one long leap. Marsh has a muddled impression of rippling sinews, a flowing mane, powerful paws thick with muscle and sharp with claws.

“All right, assholes,” says the lioness. “Let’s play.”

+

They’re late for class, but Bucky doesn’t seem to care. He’s gawking at the lioness’s human, who is the smallest, skinniest boy Marsh has seen in her life. He’s smaller than _Becky_ , for God’s sake. All his clothes fit wrong. His shoes are untied, his hair (the same colour as the lioness’s mane) sticks up like the bristles of a toothbrush, and his knobbly knees are purple with old bruises. “What the hell are you?” asks Bucky.

The boy blinks owlishly. “I’m Steve Rogers,” he says, as if that explains everything. Later, it will.

+

“The way I see it,” Ariel says later, while Bucky dabs blood from Steve’s split lip with his handkerchief, “only one of us has to be big. When Steve grows up I’m gonna be something tiny, a lizard or something.”

Marsh considers this. Now that the adrenaline is gone, she feels wrong in her bear bones. She looks down her snout at Bucky, who’s now trying to flatten Steve’s hair by sheer force of will to make him look presentable for class. Something tells her that this strange golden boy is going to be around for a long time. And his Ariel, who’ll be huge enough to scare off bullies for all four of them.

Deliberately, she shifts back into her rabbit form, and bounces over to sit on Bucky’s shoulder. Ariel bares her teeth in a grin. “Nice,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus:
> 
> “I thought you were smaller,” says Bucky, as Steve helps him off the operating table.
> 
> Marshmallow gazes down at Ariel, and wonders if she’s hallucinating. “I thought you were bigger.”


	5. sonatine / stevebucky, natasha

Bucky falls off the bed when his phone rings. He squints at the screen, askance -- nobody calls him -- then tentatively picks up. Steve mumbles in his sleep beside him.

“I need backup,” Natasha says.

+

Bucky bursts into the T-Mobile store, packing an inordinate amount of concealed weaponry, and stops short.

A perky sales girl chirps, “How can I help you today, sir?” and Bucky resists fleeing altogether.

“ _Honey_ ,” Natasha says, sidling over to him, “you're here, finally.”

+

Another ten minutes into haggling with a stringent manager makes it abundantly clear that Bucky is mostly here to look brooding and intimidate machistas.

He glares down at Natasha, whose expression says _wait for it._

The manager goes into the back to ‘check something’ and Natasha says, “I need your impression.”

“You should’ve gone with Sprint.”

“I'm stuck in this contract.”

“So bail?!”

She frowns harder. “I'm trying to live like a normal person. You know. Just for kicks.”

From underneath her shirt collar peeks an albino triangle head and gleaming red eyes.

“Snake bao bao,” Bucky greets him.

“Barnesssss,” he replies, coiling protectively around Natasha’s neck. “This guy’s a crook.”

“We don't know for sure,” Natasha says under her breath.

“Why don't you just persuade him in your usual way?” Marshmallow asks, popping out from the hood of Bucky’s jacket.

“Nat’s trying to go straight,” Boris says.

“So to speak,” says Bucky.

They snicker. Natasha fake glowers.

+

Bucky watches carefully when the manager comes back, for Nat is the only person whose instincts he trusts implicitly. (He trusts Steve’s heart; not his knee-jerk lit-fuse reactions.)

There is one word the manager says that puts Bucky on edge. He looks down at Marsh, who nods. He looks over at Nat, who wilts.

Bucky waits outside as Natasha spearheads a more direct negotiation approach. She exits the store sagging. She wants to believe in humanity, and it hurts Bucky’s heart that humanity doesn't always believe in her.

He takes her out to a 24/hour greasy spoon diner that doesn't raise his and Marsh’s hackles. Boris curls himself around Natasha’s coffee mug.

“You can always get a burner phone,” Bucky says around a mouthful of eggs.

“The opposite direction I'm trying to go,” Natasha says.

“We can take Steve with us to the next store,” Bucky suggests. “And have him flex. Guaranteed 20% discount.”

Natasha cracks a smile. “Maybe.”

“Who raised you, Barnes?” Boris says. “Close your mouth when you chew.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dirtybinary](http://dirtybinary.tumblr.com) and I headcanoned snake bao bao while I was apartment hunting this week, 1000% less stressful, thank you snek


	6. dirtybinary, buckysam

“This is bullshit,” says Redwing. She fluffs up her feathers in indignation as Steve laps them for the sixteenth time, Ariel preening on his stupid golden head.

“Yeah,” says Sam, “but that view, though.”

They take a moment to appreciate the receding outline of Steve’s dorito shoulders and waist, and a few dozen yards beyond, Bucky’s sweatpants-clad ass and thighs. Redwing sighs. “Good point.”

+

Steve doesn’t run so much as cleave headlong down the path like a knife, like he's trying to fight the air molecules themselves. Bucky doesn’t run, either, or so he claims, but he has Pokemon Go eggs to hatch, so he’s perfected the art of chugging along at exactly 6.5 mph with his phone clutched upside down in battery saving mode. This results in a kind of 3:2:1 resonance where approximately once in Sam’s lap of the National Mall, both Steve and Bucky will pass him at more or less the same time, and slow down so they can jog in step for a while.

Steve chatters away about getting Starbucks and waffles after their run. Bucky jabs at his phone and makes disgruntled noises. Sam clutches at a stitch in his side and tries not to die. There’s a wiggly movement in Bucky’s hoodie, and then a familiar pair of white ears appears over the edge of a pocket. Redwing caws, but not threateningly, and buffets Sam in the head with the tip of a wing as if to say, _Get on with it._

Sam essays a sideways glance at Bucky, and holds out his own phone. “Here,” he wheezes. Every part of him feels overheated, but his cheeks are definitely warmer than the rest of him. “Hatch mine too.”

Bucky freezes up a little, as if taken by surprise. Then he grunts and takes the phone in his free hand. Marshmallow’s ears twitch. “What,” says Steve, in mock anger. “You wouldn’t help me with mine.”

“I only got two hands, Rogers,” says Bucky. He’s determinedly not looking at Sam. Sam only notices this out of the corner of his eye, because he’s determinedly not looking at Bucky, too.

“Nah,” Ariel singsongs. “You have a crush on Sam, that’s what you have.”

Marshmallow’s ears retreat. Two spots of colour appear high up over Bucky’s cheekbones, and he speeds off again, with Steve cackling behind him. Redwing flaps and gives a few excited hops on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam has to concur.

+

The next time they fall into step together, Marshmallow sneaks out of Bucky’s pocket again. This time she comes all the way out, bounds up Bucky’s metal bicep, and hops from there to Steve’s elbow. She crosses the vast span of Steve’s trapezius muscle beneath Ariel’s watchful, beady eyes, hesitates on the outcropping of one shoulder, and then takes a leap onto Sam’s arm.

Redwing squawks. So does Sam. On Steve’s other side, Bucky’s face is about the same colour as his star.

Steve grins and picks up the pace, leaving Bucky and Sam jogging side by side.


	7. sonatine, stevebucky

The soldier is keeping tight to the shadows.

The museum is closing soon, and it's not very anonymous to stomp around in heavy boots on extremely loud tile.

“What was wrong with wood?” Marshmallow mutters.

The soldier hums. He's not so used to talking, yet. But the small rabbit finds it easier. Just like she gets antsy when they're required to track.

The soldier doesn't mind that so much. Yet. Maybe when he's more of a person again.

They stop in front of the display of Captain Steven Grant Rogers first. It's him all right; the same face the soldier was smashing in a few days ago.

Marshmallow makes a pained noise. The soldier agrees and moves on.

They stop in front of the sad puppy dog in an open shirt and ruffled hair.

“We don't look _that_ much alike,” Marshmallow says. “That could be anyone, really.”

“Generic brunette,” the soldier agrees.

“Who doesn't like ties.”

The soldier tugs at his neckline, feeling a phantom strangling of chafing leather.

“Or personal hygiene,” Marshmallow adds.

The soldier flicks her ears in retaliation. She bites him, playfully, and they both spot it at the same time.

It looks like a shadow on the doctored display; someone has gone overboard on the exposure. But just behind his neck is a flare of white: not a sunspot.

“Your damn ears,” Bucky says. “A target spotted them in West Berlin that one time.”

“Not my fault Hydra picked a dominatrix aesthetic,” Marshmallow says silkily, to cover up their distress.

They go back to the Captain Blue Eyes display.

“I'm remembering something smaller,” Marshmallow says, staring at the lion daemon poised behind Cap, mane flaring, jaw outstretched in a roar.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, staring at the lines of Steve’s face. “Same eyes, though.”

“Yeah,” says Marshmallow.

They slip out just before close and find themselves on the rooftop opposite Steve’s apartment.

“You did a number on that wall. And window,” Marshmallow says.

Bucky makes a tired noise. And jumps out of his skin as a gecko daemon _without a person_ clambers onto his hand.

“Fuck!” He steadies his breathing. “I forgot how far you could move from Steve.”

“It's not pleasant,” Ariel says.

“Yeah but you stubborn bastards were always trying to push the limit, weren't you,” Bucky says, his mouth turning up. Then he gets a horrible, intense headache and has to sit down.

Ariel and Marsh curl up against his neck. He feels them breathing and synchronizes his own.

“Are you going to run, Buck?” Ariel asks sadly, and Bucky’s hand twitches.

“Not run,” he says.

“Not forever,” Marshmallow says.

“I'll miss him,” Bucky blurts.

“He misses you. Obviously,” Ariel says. “How can we find you?”

“Don't,” says Bucky, and goes to jump across the roof. “I'll find you,” he adds grudgingly, and then is a few roofs away.

_“Tell Steve to eat more broccoli,”_ Marshmallow shrieks behind them.


	8. dirtybinary, buckysam-ish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while talking to sonatine I was like "if there's Avengers merch, there must be merch of their daemons too, right?" and then this happened

“Must be weird for him,” says Bucky.

They stare at the rack of shirts, each bearing Steve’s heroically crooked nose and freedom-shaped jawline. Marshmallow has abandoned her customary place in Bucky’s hoodie to climb onto his head for a better view. Bucky picks out an XL and holds it up to his shoulders, studying his reflection in the mirror. “Imagine walking down the street and seeing a complete stranger wearing one of these.”

“Never mind the shirts,” says Marshmallow in a strangled voice. “There’s _soft toys_.”

+

Ten minutes later, and five paces deeper into the shop, Bucky’s shopping basket contains the following items:

\- a Captain America tsum tsum, complete with shield and tiny gecko Ariel  
\- a stuffed lioness (”Squeeze Me,” a sticker on her foreleg proclaims, and she gives a tiny roar when Bucky obliges)  
\- a Pizza Dog mini-bolster  
\- a fabric pencil case that looks exactly like Boris, complete with beady red eyes and pointy triangular head, and a discreet zipper going down the middle of his white-scaled back  
\- an Apollo-shaped neck roll pillow (for Peggy, the next time he and Steve visit her)  
\- a pair of matching Iron Man and War Machine salt and pepper shakers

All things considered, Bucky is pretty sure the Avengers merch store is the best thing that’s happened to him this side of the century.

“C’mon, Marsh,” he says. Marshmallow, chittering with excitement, hopped away from him a minute ago to slip herself in the pocket of a Hulk hoodie, and hasn't returned since. This corner of Brooklyn has probably seen stranger things in the last few years, but it’s still not a good idea to attract attention by misplacing his daemon in the middle of a store. “I ain’t made of money, we gotta go.”

Marsh bounces back over to him and lands in the shopping basket, a Falcon bookmark clutched in her mouth. “But _balloons_ ,” she protests. “Look!”

Bucky follows the direction of her gaze, and spots a bouquet of helium balloons tied to the next shelf. Every single one of them is the splitting image of Redwing. “Oh my god.”

“We’re getting one, right?” Marsh asks, almost beside herself. “Bucky, she has _sunglasses_.”

“We’re getting twenty and putting them all around the Tower,” Bucky says decisively. He counts them out and ties them to the handle of his basket, listing towards the cashier. Marsh is making hopeful noises at a Black Panther action figure. “C’mon, sweets, I’m hungry, let’s go.”

“Buck,” says Marsh suddenly, going still, and Bucky sees what she’s looking at.

Nestled next to the cash register, where they’ve missed it before, is a shelf of Bucky Bears. Not the ones in the silly red and blue uniform they started producing during the war—Bucky’s seen those in pretty much every toy store they’ve been to—but a new kind, with a little black Kevlar vest and stubby metal paw. And below _that_ , nearly empty, is a basket of tiny stuffed white rabbits.

“Our bestsellers,” says the girl at the register, a college-aged kid with a canary daemon. Marsh gives a flustered squeak and dives into his hoodie, ears flattened, before the salesgirl can recognise her. “Next shipment only comes in Monday, so if you want one, better get it now.”

“Bestsellers?” Bucky says. It comes out sounding vaguely hysterical.

“Yeah,” says the girl, grinning. “What can I say, she's adorable. Kids, parents, collectors, history buffs, literally _everybody_ wants one. My coworker swears Falcon himself came in last week and bought one, but I dunno.”

Marsh makes an explosive noise against Bucky’s collarbone. Bucky feels his face heat up. “Right,” he says, placing his basket on the register. “You know what, I think I’ll take one too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is Pizza Dog Clint's daemon? it's a mystery
> 
> [this](http://saniamanicrafts.deviantart.com/art/Bunny-cw-608038563) is the closest thing to my mental image of Marshmallow


	9. dirtybinary, buckysam

“Stop it, you creampuff,” says Bucky. “You’re a bunny. You’re not even a real bunny. You don’t drink coffee.”

Ariel peers into the kitchen, gecko tail flicking, from her perch on the top of Steve’s bedroom door. Bucky at 0615 hours is a very grumpy Bucky indeed, shirt crumpled, mussed hair sticking up like a fern, sweatpants in danger of sliding down his hipbones. She doubts she’s ever seen him willingly awake while the morning was still in the single digits. He’s holding two coffee mugs, one in each hand. One of them is steaming, and the other is… well, twitching.

“That’s just an excuse not to share,” says a familiar squeaky voice. Marshmallow’s paws scrabble against the rim of the mug, claws out, and Bucky clutches the other cup closer. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

“It’s for Sam,” says Bucky valiantly. 

“Sam,” says Marsh, “wants to try a new jogging route, all five miles of it, at seven in the morning. He needs to be _stopped_ , not _encouraged_.”

An early-morning romantic jog. No wonder Steve is sleeping in today—or pretending to sleep in, at any rate. Ariel glances back into the bedroom, where her human is silently doing calf raises with the TV set on his head. He’s giving the lovebirds space. “Oh, don’t complain,” says Bucky, through a magnificent yawn. “I’m sure Redwing will carry you. _I’m_ the one who’ll have to do the jogging.” 

“Yeah, yeah, anything for Redwing,” says Marsh, in a voice that approximates but falls just short of blasé. “C’mon, Buck, just one sip.” 

“Don’t you dare, you fucking meringue, go eat hay or something.”

_“Hay!”_

“You’re a rabbit!”

“You’re a cyborg!” 

“What’s wrong with being a cyborg?”

“I’ll eat hay,” says Marsh, with withering hauteur, “if you drink Sam’s gun oil.” 

There’s a Mexican standoff of a silence, man and rabbit glowering at each other across the disputed coffee cup. Ariel raises her eyes to heaven and back. “Fine!” says Bucky.

“Fine!” says Marsh.

Ariel slithers down the door, across the chilly parquet floor and up Steve’s leg to his shoulder. “Steve,” she says. “I thought of a Valentine’s gift for Sam.”

Steve brightens. “What’s that?” 

“A new can of gun oil,” says Ariel.

+

Bucky and Marsh return at 1035 hours, both looking queasy, but radiant with what Kostya calls—with wistful sarcasm—the glow of new love. “Sam kept pace with me,” says Bucky in unbridled awe.

“Redwing carried me,” says Marsh, more squeakily than usual. 

“ _I_ slept in,” Ariel chimes in, jealous enough to lie; and they both look at her with profound envy, but the glow is still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the things you think of while trapped in a cabin in the mountains without tumblr, but just enough wifi to text sonatine and yell about grumpy rabbits.

**Author's Note:**

> we are [sonatine](http://sonatine.tumblr.com) and [dirtybinary](http://dirtybinary.tumblr.com) on tumblr!
> 
> original tumblr headcanon post [here](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/149929283149/dirtybinary-sonatine-sonatine)


End file.
